The Duke of St. Giles

by Jillian Eaton

  “No,” she said with conviction. “I do not believe you cheated and Lord Collinsworth is a poor sport for saying otherwise.”

  West paused with the glass of brandy tilted halfway to his mouth. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his expression inscrutable. “And how did you draw that conclusion, Princess?”

  Emily shrugged. “A feeling, I suppose. Or mayhap an instinct. Call it what you will, but I refuse to believe you would stoop so low as to cheat at a game of cards.”

  “This from the woman who I have kidnapped?”

  “That is a different matter entirely.”

  He took a sip of brandy. When he lowered the glass, the faintest trace of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Oh it is, is it?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “Only a scoundrel would cheat and you, Mr. Green, are no scoundrel. Even though you do an excellent impression of one from time to time.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “Think what you will, Princess.”

  Emily settled further into her chair and toyed with a loose curl, winding the silky tendril around and around her finger. “Oh, I intend to, Mr. Green. Now please, go on. You were saying Lord Collinsworth accused you of cheating…”

  “Yes.” West’s smile tightened into a dark scowl. “The idiot insisted on pistols at dawn, but one of his friends was able to talk him down. Sullivan had him banned from Darkhall—”

  “This all occurred at Mr. Sullivan’s gambling hell?”

  “Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Her shoulders lifted and fell. “Simply trying to get all the pieces,” she said as her opinion of Sullivan slipped yet another notch.

  Now that man was a prime example of a scoundrel if ever she’d seen one. After their first meeting they’d rarely had occasion to speak more than a few words to one another, but whenever they happened to pass in the hall Emily felt his gaze lingering on her backside far longer than it should have. She imagined most people found him amusing and charming, but she was able to see beneath the glossy sheen of charisma to the darkness he had hidden beneath. Suffice it to say, she didn’t trust him. Not one little bit. Unfortunately, it seemed as though she remained the exception for although they were fighting as often as they were agreeing, West and Sullivan acted more like brothers than foes. The two of them were thick as thieves. Quite literally, as it so happened.

  The only other person who seemed less than taken with Sullivan was, surprisingly, Mattie. The outspoken maid, never one to hide her opinions, made no attempt to disguise the fact that she likened the gambler to a wart-covered toad (her words, not Emily’s). The dislike seemed to be mutual. Whenever the two happened to be in the same room together the air thickened with a tension that was palpable, and one or the other always made some empty excuse to leave. Emily almost would have thought they secretly liked each other if it weren’t so obvious they were mortal enemies.

  It certainly didn’t help matters that Bea now fancied herself head over heels in love with the incorrigible gambler. It seemed she’d given up on West in favor of Sullivan, a dramatic switch that continued to go unnoticed by both men.

  The opposite sex, Emily surmised, truly were oblivious when it came to a woman’s feelings. They saw what they wanted to see, taking everything at face value and never digging beneath the surface.

  West was certainly a prime example of that.

  He was attracted to her. She knew he was, and yet he’d never acted on his attraction. Not really. Not in a way that counted. He saw her solely as an obligation. To him she was a responsibility to be met, not a woman to be seduced. It was one of the reasons she could say with full confidence that he’d not cheated Lord Collinsworth in their game of cards. A man who wouldn’t stoop to seducing an innocent lady under his own roof was not the sort of man who would attempt to win an estate by ill means.

  Brushing aside the curl she’d been toying with Emily absently scratched at her cheek. “Well then if Lord Collinsworth did not challenge you to a duel and he’s been banned from Mr. Sullivan’s gambling house, what is he doing now? Spreading gossip?”

  West drained the remainder of his brandy in one hard swallow. He tilted the glass, letting it catch the candlelight before setting it aside on the table and turning his head so she was met with the full weight of his hard, unflinching stare. “You could say that. He has accused me of murdering his wife.”

  Emily and West were not the only ones still awake despite the late hour. In the front sitting parlor Mattie knelt beside a bucket filled with sudsy water, a rag in her hand and a frown of concentration on her face as she scrubbed at the floorboards.

  Usually she returned to the village after serving dinner, but since washing the floor was a physically grueling task it was best saved for the early morning or late evening when the sun was in full retreat.

  She hummed as she worked, a simple, cheerful tune that made the work go by all the more quickly. Courtesy of the nearly constant flow of traffic in and out of the house as of late the wood was filthy, covered in mud and dirt and Lord above knew what else. When the floor was washed she would let it dry overnight and rub it down with beeswax in the morning. After that it would be polished to a high sheen and would, for a time, be clean. Until Sullivan tromps in with his muddy boots and mucks it all up again, she thought with a scowl.

  The man didn’t have a care for the work of others. He never wiped his boots when he came into the house. Never attempted to hang up his coat. Never bothered with something so simple as a ‘thank-you’ when he was served afternoon tea.

  Mattie began to scrub the floor with vigor as her thoughts took a darker turn. She knew who Sullivan was, just as she knew what they called him in London. The Prince of King Street, as though he were royalty. Well, she might work for a duke, but she’d be damned before she lifted a finger for some stuck up prince!

  “Are you cleaning the floor boards or attacking them?” a voice drawled unexpectedly.

  Mattie shrieked and jumped to the side like a startled cat. Unfortunately in her surprise she forgot about the bucket of water and she caught it with the heel of her boot, spilling the contents in a stream of sudsy dirt all over the floor.

  “Bloody hell,” she exclaimed as she lunged for the bucket and flipped it upright, not that it did any good. The damage had been done, all her hard work ruined. Tears of frustration sparked in the corners of her eyes as she got slowly to her feet, noting her skirts were as wet as the floor. She jerked her chin up and glared at the person who’d snuck up on her, not even a little bit surprised to see it was none other than Eric Sullivan himself.

  He leaned against one side of the doorframe, an insolent smirk on his face as his gaze swept across the spilled water. “I suppose that’s one way to clean.”

  Mattie didn’t think. She just reacted. The wet rag flew out of her hand as if of its own volition and caught Sullivan squarely across the face. He grunted and staggered back, clawing at the wet rag. Perching her hands on her hips Mattie battled back a grin and said with satisfaction, “Now that’s how eye clean.”

  Sullivan threw the rag aside. “You impudent little wench. I cannot believe you did that.”

  “Why?” Mattie scoffed. “Because I am a maid and ye think yourself better than me? Well you’re not, ye know. In fact, we were both born in the same – what are you doing?” she demanded when he closed the door behind him with a quiet click and stepped into the room.

  Sullivan rubbed the side of his face where a trace of dampness still lingered. For once his perpetual smirk was gone, but Mattie wasn’t sure she liked the expression that had taken its place. He looked far too serious. And – she swallowed hard – suddenly quite dangerous.

  She’d been so busy being annoyed with Sullivan that she’d never taken the time to really look at him, but she was looking now… and, as much as she was loathe to admit it, she could see why women worshipped him.

  He really was a handsome devil. If one liked the ruggedly built, blond haired, blue eyed types. W
hich she didn’t. Not at all. Not even in a tiny bit.

  No matter that he had the jawline of a Greek god and the muscles of a gladiator. Mattie clenched her teeth. Where had that thought come from? After all, what someone looked like didn’t matter. It was how they acted that counted, and to date Sullivan had been as arrogant and demanding as a two-year-old in the midst of a tantrum. And the way he looked at her! He was doing it even now, staring at her with a hungry ferocity that had her fighting the urge to glance down and see if she were still wearing clothes.

  “What am I doing?” he repeated. A smile pulled at one side of his mouth but there was no humor behind it, and suddenly Mattie knew this was exactly how a trembling rabbit must feel when it found itself pinned to ground by a sly, hungry fox. “Teaching you a lesson.”

  Mattie’s shoulders stiffened. Ignoring the little voice in her head that cried ‘run, you fool!’ she curled her lip contemptuously and said, “There is nothing ye could possibly teach me, Sullivan. Ye may have everyone else fooled, but I see ye for the cad ye truly are.”

  “Oh you do, do you love?” he said softly, taking another step forward.

  “I do,” she answered. “And don’t call me that.”

  “Call you what? Call you love?” His smile widened. It was a predator’s smile, all sharp angles and hard lines with just a hint of teeth. “What are you going to do about it?”

  As the unfortunate recipient of large breasts at the tender age of fourteen, Mattie had been dealing with overzealous men for longer than she cared to remember. No matter what shape or size they came in, they all thought the same: with their cocks instead of what little brains they possessed. Most of them she was able to deter with a sharp word or a mocking laugh – nothing shriveled up a man faster than a woman laughing at him – and the few who’d persisted quickly learned she wasn’t only talk. After all she was a rookery girl, born and raised in a place that fed on violence. In St. Giles you either learned to throw the first punch or duck the second.

  Mattie had never been much of a ducker.

  There were times to rely on a good defense, she thought as she took Sullivan’s measure beneath a thick fringe of russet lashes, but everyone knew the best defense was a good offense.

  Experimenting, she wet her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. When Sullivan’s eyes immediately darkened she bit back a smile. It was almost going to be too easy.

  Tilting her head to the side, deliberately exposing the long curve of her neck and one ivory shoulder dotted with dusky freckles, she took a step forward and purred, “What can I do? I’m just a poor, defenseless maid and you’re so strong and powerful.”

  He was smarter than the rest, Mattie noted when the corners of his mouth tightened with suspicion. But he was still a man, and men could be controlled if a woman was cunning enough.

  “Strong and powerful, is it?” One eyebrow lifted. “A moment ago you called me a cad. Yesterday it was a snake and the day before that—”

  “Can a girl not change her mind?” she interrupted as she took one step closer, then another. By the third they were close enough to touch. The fourth brought them body-to-body, her wet skirts pressing against his thighs. Mattie was tall for a woman and Sullivan slightly short for a man so she had only to tilt her chin a notch for them to see eye to eye. She felt the rise and fall of his chest. Heard his breath catch when she trailed her fingertips down the outside of his arm. In lieu of his usually outlandish attire he was dressed down this evening in a white linen shirt and a dark pair of breeches, the color undeterminable in the shadowy light. Her fingers slid off his arm and fell to his hip. He released his breath in a sharp hiss.

  “You’re playing with fire, love,” he said huskily.

  Mattie knew he spoke the truth, but she couldn’t help herself. What had begun mere seconds ago as a game to teach him a lesson had rapidly dissolved into something more. She willed herself to step back, but her legs were frozen to the floor. Bewildered by the sudden aching in her chest she started to draw her hand away, but Sullivan caught her wrist and forced her palm to splay flat across his hip until they both felt the burn of each other’s touch. She jerked her arm. Scowled when he didn’t lessen his grip. “Let me go.”

  He made a tsking sound under his breath. “Were you not the one who came to me? To give me a kiss or” – his eyes narrowed – “knee me in the bollocks?”

  The gambler was far too perceptive. And much smarter than she’d initially given him credit for. She’d underestimated him, and in doing so landed herself in quite the predicament. “Lady Emily told me West said ye were not to touch her or the servants.” Her gaze flicked deliberately to where he held her hand pinned against his waist. “I believe this counts as touching.”

  “So it does,” Sullivan said, looking supremely unconcerned with following any orders West might have given him. Somehow Mattie was not surprised. “I have been trying to figure you out since I arrived, you know.”

  Now that was surprising. “Have ye?”

  “Indeed. You’re not like any other woman I’ve ever met.”

  Mattie stared down her nose at him. “Since I am sure your female company largely extends to prostitutes and women of considerably lesser morals than my own, I shall take that as a great compliment.”

  “Think you have me pegged, do you? Loose women and late nights,” he drawled. “Those are the things the Prince of King Street is made of.”

  Her free hand curled into a tiny fist. “I have seen nothing that would tell me otherwise.”

  He dipped his head. She felt the brush of his whiskers against her cheek. The whisper of his breath against her ear. “Then perhaps you haven’t been looking hard enough.” Countenance inscrutable, he turned and walked out of the parlor without another word.

  Left alone, Mattie bit the inside of her cheek, shook her head to clear it, and got back to work.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “He has accused you of m-murdering his wife?” Emily stuttered. Her feet slid off the edge of the chair and dropped to the floor with a quiet thud. “Lord Collinsworth has accused you of murder.”

  Unfolding his lanky body West stood up and refilled his glass. He carried it to the window and stared out into the darkness, the hard lines of his profile unreadable in the flickering candlelight. “Yes. That is why Sullivan is here. He came to warn me not to return to London. Bow Street Runners are looking for me even as we speak.”

  There was a peculiar tightening in Emily’s chest. She pressed a hand between her breasts, attempting to massage it away. “But surely he is mistaken. Or at the very least everyone knows this is a very poor attempt to get revenge on you for taking his estate. Why, I would be willing to bet Lady Collinsworth safely tucked away in the country eating crumpets and drinking tea!”

  “Her body was found in Thames four days ago,” he said flatly.

  The tightness in Emily’s chest intensified, making it difficult to draw a full breath. She stood up with such abruptness that her chair was knocked back before it crashed to the floor, the sound magnified a hundred times over in the quiet room.

  His mouth curved in a humorless smile, West turned from the window. “What’s the matter, Princess? You shouldn’t look so surprised. You know who I am.” The hand wrapped around his drink tightened until his knuckles gleamed white. “You know what I am.”

  Emily stepped around the side of the desk. She should have been running in the opposite direction, but even now, even after what she’d just learned, she felt drawn to West as though by some invisible force she could neither define nor understand. A practical woman would have run. A sensible woman would have run screaming. Then again, she’d never been accused of being practical or sensible.

  West’s head lifted when she took a hesitant step towards him, her feet dragging across the carpet as though held down by weights. “What are you?” she whispered.

  He didn’t hesitate. “A thief. A smuggler. A kidnapper. A murderer.”

  Emily flinched. “You did not murder L
ady Collinsworth.”

  “Even if I never touched her I would still be a murderer.”

  It wasn’t a denial, but it wasn’t an admission of guilt either. She took another step. West tensed, his muscles coiling beneath his shirt like a panther getting ready to spring. Emily swallowed hard. One step, perhaps two, and she would be putting herself into dangerous territory from which there was no easy way out.

  She took three.

  West set the glass blindly aside. “What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was hoarse. His eyes glowed with golden intensity, making Emily think of a smoldering fire ready to ignite.

  “I know I shouldn’t,” she said quietly. “I know in my head it’s wrong. But in my heart…” She hesitated, but only for the briefest of moments. “In my heart it feels right.”

  “You have no idea what you are playing at,” he growled.

  She shook her head slowly from side to side. Dark curls rippled down her back in a waterfall of silk, tumbling over her shoulders and catching on the lace collar of her nightgown. “I’m playing with fire,” she whispered. “And I’m not afraid to get burned.”

  West muttered a savage oath before he yanked her to him, pulling her hard against his chest and sinking his fingers into her wild mane of curls. She arched her back, pushing against him instinctively as her hands burrowed between them and flattened over his ribs. He sucked in a breath at her touch. Released it on a heavy groan.

  “Emily…”

  She rocked her hips against him. Never in her life had she ever imagined being so bold, but she was drunk on the power of taking the initiative and dizzy from the feel of him. “Kiss me. Forget who I am, forget who you are, and kiss me.” It wasn’t a question but a demand; one she could feel West was reluctant to obey.